The skipper stopped the Eruption at his position, a lone Marine ground-guide leading him in. One after the other, the Kiss of Death, Ball Shot, Boudicca II, and the Anvil pulled in behind her. The remaining platoons fell in behind them, and then Alpha and Bravo Companies to their right.
And then it was time to wait for the rest of the division units to form up. Standing on his seat and looking forward, Noah pitied the grunts. The first company to form up had probably been standing there at attention for 20 minutes so far.
A loud, resonating fart sounded from below him.
“Grubbing hell, Llanz. Even here?”
“As I keep telling you, unum saltum, et siffletum, et unum bumbulum.”
“I’ll freaking ‘bumbulum’ you,” Noah said, keeping his face locked to the front.
Llanzo was a senior sergeant with two years as a driver, and his quals were high, but he had digestive issues. Worse than that, he was pretty complacent about passing the resultant gas. Noah had the hatch open, so it wasn’t bad, but in a closed tank, the filters were designed to keep bad things from getting into the tank, not releasing gas that originated from inside. Noah had a sneaking suspicion that Llanzo was sent by Third because of his flatulence.
Noah had to look up the Latin LLanzo kept spouting: it meant, “One jump, one whistle, one fart.” Evidently, back on Old Earth, there were “flatulists,” sort of court jesters, or later, comedians, who were paid quite well to entertain jokes and well-times farts.
The universe is a crazy place.
It took another fifteen minutes before the entire division, at least those units which weren’t deployed, to form up. Finally, the last of the arty was in place behind everyone else, and in unison, every tube opened up, sending a shock wave over the division and up into the stands. The crowd erupted into cheers and applause.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the narrator announced over the sound system. “Welcome to the Fourth Marine Division’s Birthday Pageant. Today, the United Federation Marine Corps celebrates 317 years of service to our great Federation.
“The Fourth Marine Division has a long and glorious history, and the battle streamers on the division colors represent 67 different operations. Standing before you is Major Stanley H. Carrigan, the commanding general. Joining him in the staff is Sergeant Major Filipe L. J. J. Lopez-Sivla, the division sergeant major.
“If I can turn your attention to the reviewing stand, our guest of honor is Vice-Minister Patricia Q. Howland, accompanied by Lieutenant General Kristof K. Kravitz, the United Federation Marine Corps Chief of Research and Development.
“Please stand, as we present the colors. The color guard, composed of six Marines and one Navy corpsman representing each regiment and separate combat arms battalion, is led by Sergeant Gustavio Miller.”
The crowd rose to its feet as the drummer commenced with a beat. Noah was standing at attention the best he could considering he was on top of his seat, and he could only peripherally see the color guard do its thing. Then it was 45 minutes of speeches, and Noah quickly zoned out. The grunts were at parade rest, but he couldn’t do that standing on his seat, so he simply leaned back a bit, his butt on the edge of the hatch. LLanzo was sitting, his head out of his hatch, but that didn’t stop him from “bumbulumming,” if that was even a word.
Finally, those giving speeches must have been tired, and the adjutant yelled out, “Pass . . . in . . . REVIEW!”
There was almost a palpable sigh of relief as the drum picked up the beat, and the color guard marched to the far right-hand side of the formation before doubling back to cross in front of the bleachers and spectators. Both the guest of honor and Lieutenant General Kaufmann saluted as the Federation colors passed them. Behind them, a line of Marines, all in historical costumes going back to the formation of the Marines marched past, the narrator explaining each uniform. And then, at last, the first of the grunts stepped off.
Noah had never actually stood as a grunt in a division-sized formation, but he could imagine the feeling as blood started flowing back into legs pushed into motion. He was in the Anvil, but he shook out his legs, too. Eventually, it was their turn. With the skipper leading, First Platoon followed four tanks abreast, and in turn were followed 50 meters back by the four tanks from Second Platoon.
“Eyes . . . right!” the skipper passed over the net, saluting as he reached the reviewing officer. LLanzo kept his eyes straight ahead, but Noah snapped his head to the right at a 45-degree angle. Once the Third Platoon passed the vice-minister, they were essentially done. A ground-guide was waiting for them at the end of the parade deck, and First Platoon turned into the parking lot while Second and Third proceeded to the lowboy for transport back to Camp Archuleta.
The four tanks were parked ready to be a static display for the crowds and newsies.
“You’ve got it, Llanz,” Noah said, jumping out the hatch. He’d relieve his fellow sergeant later, but at the moment, he needed to track down his family.
Family. It still sounded odd to him.
There were at least 6,000 spectators, but Noah had told Miriam where to wait, and sure enough, as he reached the reviewing stand, there she was, Chance on her hip.
He gave her a kiss—yes, he was in uniform, but he didn’t think that constituted PDA.[6]
“And how’s my man?’ he asked, taking Chance’s hand and giving it a gentle shake.
“Your man is asleep, but he woke when you came rumbling past,” Miriam said.
“That’s ’cause he’s a tanker, just like his daddy.”
Miriam merely snorted.
“Well, what did you think?” he asked her.
“Much bigger than on Wayfarer Station,” she said. “But I kind of liked it better there. We were so much closer to the Marines. This was impressive, but not as personal. Anyway, that’s just my opinion.”
On the station, with much more constrained space, both the Patron Day and Marine Corps Birthday parade and pageant took place in the Alpha Corridor, and the spectators could reach out and touch some of them while they marched. There was a lot to be said for that. But seeing almost a whole division on the parade deck had been pretty impressive, he thought.
“Any word on a sitter for tomorrow night?”
Miriam hugged Chance a little tighter as a frown just creased the edges of her mouth.
“Not yet. I’m not sure we’re going to be able to go. I mean, me. I don’t think I can go. You can still enjoy it.”
Miriam was still rather possessive of Chance, and while Noah knew for a fact that there were arrangements at the ball for children, he was also sure that Miriam simply was not willing to let go, even for an evening. She’d enjoyed the four other balls she’d attended, but that was before she’d become a mother.
In another two months, she’d be off maternity leave, and she’d have to let go then, so he really didn’t understand her reluctance now.
For a moment, he was tempted to say he’d go on his own. If she didn’t want to go, that was her choice. But there would probably be a cost to pay if he went alone.
“Nah, it’s OK. We’ve been to them before, and we’ll be to others in the future. Chance is only going to be a baby for a short time, so we need to enjoy him like this.”
Miriam nodded, but her smile let Noah know he’d made the right choice.
Chapter 27
Noah tasted the mashed peas from the blender.
Too bland, he thought to himself.
It took an effort of will not to reach for the sherry vinegar to give the peas a little kick. But Miriam had been on his case about making Chance’s food too spicy. She thought it was bad enough that he made baby food from scratch instead of relying on “doctor approved” food from the fabricator, but he held firm, insisting that Chance at least experience “real” food.
He realized that fab food was nutritionally sound, and with the infant add-on pack, it was probably better from a medical standpoint than what he was making. Miriam said he just wanted Chance to be a little N
oah, and she might be right. But Noah wanted him to at least be introduced to food made from natural ingredients, to “pre-load” his taste buds, so-to-speak.
“You like it, though, right?” he asked Chance, who gurgled back something from his highchair.
He looked up at the clock: 1922. Miriam was running late again. With the day care on base, Noah could pick up Chance easily enough when he wasn’t in the field or on duty, but he thought Miriam would have been home by now. Not that he was really concerned about it. He welcomed the opportunity to be alone with his son like this.
He fed Chance, changed his diapers, then sat with him on the rocker until the little guy fell asleep. He considered putting him in the crib, but he just sat there, holding Chance against his chest. Times like this were all too few.
Noah nodded off himself before the door opened and Miriam came in. She dropped her bag on the couch and picked Chance off his chest, holding him close as he squirmed in her arms.
“Everything OK at work? It’s . . .” he paused, looking at the clock. “. . . 2115.”
“We were shorthanded and I had to take two stations,” she answered, looking Chance over as if making sure Noah hadn’t screwed up with him. “Let me put him down.”
Noah stood up, stretched, and went to the cooler, pulling out some pork cutlets.
“Do you want these? I can make them piccata.”
“No, I’m beat. This is good enough,” she said, spooning out some of the remaining peas from the blender.
Noah shrugged and put the cutlets back into the cooler. Miriam wasn’t a fussy eater. If it was calories, then it was fine. She ate to live, not lived to eat. He went to the couch and sat down, and a few minutes later, she joined him.
“We need to talk,” she said.
“About what?”
“This,” she said, pointing at her waitress uniform.
“You don’t like to wear it?” Noah asked, confused.
“No, not that. Well, yeah, I don’t like it. But the work. The hours. I take Chance to day-care at 1100 each morning, then go to work. I don’t see him again until late when he’s already asleep, at least until he wakes up in the middle of the night and I’ve got to tend to him.”
“I pick him up—” he started before she interrupted him.
“You pick him up when you can, but what about last week during your field ops? That was three days when I had to, and never earlier than 2000. It’s not good for him to be at Day Care for so long.”
“Maybe,” Noah said, although not convinced there was a problem. “But what are we going to do? I mean, you can ask for fewer hours, but is that going to make a big difference?”
“No, and that’s my point.”
“So, what do you want to do?”
“I think I need to quit. I need to stay home.”
Noah looked at her in surprise.
Stay at home? How can we afford that?
“But, you’ve never mentioned anything about that before.”
“I am now. I thought it would work out, but it isn’t.”
Noah paused, trying to marshal his wording, before he asked, “But what about your pay? Can we survive without it?”
She let out a big breath, then said, “Not really. I mean, of course, we can, but it’ll be tough. We’d have to really watch our spending. But you’ll be a staff sergeant sometime, and if not that soon, your enlistment will be up and we can look at something else.”
That was a gut-shot to Noah. They’d never discussed yet what they’d do after his enlistment expired, but he’d half-assumed he’d just re-up again. Now it seemed as if Miriam wasn’t sold on that idea.
“I . . . we need to look at this. We’re barely scraping by with what we make between us. Can we really make it on my salary alone?”
“Not just your salary. I can try some home-based work. Lots of people do it, you know.”
“What kind of work?”
“I don’t know. But I can figure out something.”
Noah leaned back, letting it all sink in. The silence between them was getting uncomfortable.
Finally, he said, “Maybe we should think about it. Let’s see if we can come up with some work before you quit your job.”
“Too late, Noah. I already gave notice. Next Saturday will be my last day.”
“What?” Noah said, unable to articulate the rush of thoughts that smacked his brain.
“I gave them notice.”
“You didn’t think to tell me?” he managed to get out.
“I’m telling you now.”
Noah was shocked. He thought they worked things out between them, and to hear that she’d just acted out like that unilaterally took him by surprise.
“Oh, and one more thing. I gave them the notice today because I just found out.”
“Found out what?” he asked, feeling numb.
“I’m pregnant again. We’re having another child.”
Chapter 28
“Staff Sergeant Cain? I’m Sergeant Lysander.”
The broad-shouldered staff sergeant stood up from the chair in Gunny Chimond’s office, hand out to shake. He had the typical physique of a heavy-worlder, but all Noah knew about the man was that he was to be the Anvil’s new commander. He’d just gotten the word from the gunny, and trying to stifle his disappointment, had come from the ramp to pick him up.
“If there’s anything you need, my door’s always open,” the gunny said. “But you’ve got one of the best in Sergeant Lysander.”
“Thanks,” the staff sergeant said, squeezing Noah’s hand hard.
Noah didn’t squeeze back but simply tensed his hand so it wouldn’t be crushed. He wasn’t into pissing contests, but he wasn’t about to back down.
“Everyone says you’re hot shit, Lysander. That true?”
The staff sergeant was smiling a kilometer wide, and his voice was friendly—Noah wasn’t sure if the man was joking or not, but he chose to play it like that, responding, “That’ll be up to you to decide, Staff Sergeant.”
“Well, I guess I will at that. Why don’t you take me down to the ramp so I can meet . . . LLanzo, is that his name?” he asked, then before Noah could answer, “. . . and see the bucket of bolts that’ll be my home for the next three years.”
“OK, then. Just follow me and I’ll take you to the Anvil.”
Noah looked over his shoulder as he left the gunny’s office, and to his surprise, the neutral expression on the gunny’s face changed to something, well, not so neutral as they left. He didn’t think the gunny noticed him looking at her, and he wondered what the change in attitude meant.
Maybe there’s just something else on her mind.
He led the new TC past the battalion CP and down Meunster Avenue to the ramp. Llanzo was waiting beside the Anvil, anxious to meet the new commander.
Over the last two months, the two had formed a pretty tight team, both relying on and trusting the other. It couldn’t last forever, though. A Davis crew was three Marines, not two. Noah had just hoped to get a new driver instead of a new commander, but he guessed that had never been in the cards.
“Sergeant Llanzo, good to meet you,” the staff sergeant said, reaching out to bump fists. “I gotta tell you, I was stoked when I found out you were my crew. We’re a bro crew.”
Noah wasn’t sure he heard the staff sergeant correctly.
“A bro crew?”
“Yeah, you know, bros,” the staff sergeant said, looking around to see if anyone was listening, then saying quieter, “Guys. Bros. All male.”
“Yeah, I guess all three of us are guys,” Llanzo said.
“I mean, the gunny? Give me a break. She sounds like Meerkat Momma,” he said, referring to a popular children’s figure in the toons. “You make sure you pick up your toys, kiddos,” he added mimicking her.
“Gunny Chimond’s OK, Staff Sergeant. She was my commander on Novyy Ural after Staff Sergeant Cremineli was killed,” Noah said.
“Hey, no offense. I know you’ve got to be l
oyal and all that, and I’m sure she a nice gal. But a Marine? Give me a break. And the platoon commander and first sergeant are bitches, too?”
“I’m not sure your point, Staff Sergeant. There are lots of women in the company. We’re a tank company, after all,” Noah said, still confused by the staff sergeant’s attitude.
“Oh, don’t get your panties in a twist, Lysander. We don’t have to be PC here. I’m just saying, it’s good to be an all-guy crew. We can relax with each other and not get turned in for sexual harassment if we say someone’s got a great ass or something. You know what I mean. Am I right?”
When neither Marine said anything, he added, “Look, I know there are some good broad-ass Marines, some real hard chargers. But person for person, they’re just not our equals, and they get special treatment, you know, coming right from MacCailín’s office. She made Chairman, and look at the social experiments going on since then. But you, Lysander, you have to see it. Your twin, she’s an officer now, right? But where are you? Did some magic hand reach down and pull you up, too? No. You’re a guy, and you have to do it all yourself.
“I’ll serve with them, so don’t think I’m some misogynist cretin. Hell, I love me my ladies,” he said, punching Llanzo in the shoulder. “Am I right? Anyway, all I’m saying is that I’m glad I’ve got two bros as my crew. It just makes it easier, that’s all.”
Noah knew he should say something else, to stick up for the gunny, for the lieutenant. To tell the staff sergeant that Esther earned her commission, and that he’d never even wanted one. But he didn’t, and he wasn’t sure why.
“So, is this our girl?” he asked.
“Yes, this is the Anvil,” Llanzo said, patting the side of the tank.
“Anvil? Weak-ass name. Well, first things first. Let’s get that shit off of her. From now on, she’s the Hombre.”
Hombre, Noah thought, his heart falling.
He hadn’t really thought of losing the Anvil name, but Staff Sergeant Cain was the new TC, and the tank was his to rename, even considering the irony of his referring to a tank named “Hombre” as a “she.”
Noah's Story: Marine Tanker (The United Federation Marine Corps' Lysander Twins Book 3) Page 18